


Pretty Girls Make Graves

by 10milestereo



Category: The 100 (TV), clexa - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Eventual Smut, F/F, Flirting, Horror, Love, Murder Mystery, References to horror movies, References to really good music, References to the 1980s, Serial Killers, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:51:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/10milestereo/pseuds/10milestereo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke loves horror movies, but what happens when real life horror comes to her sleepy town?  </p><p>College students go missing.  Dead bodies turn up.  A killer is on the loose.  Everyone is a suspect. </p><p>Lexa and Clarke and their friends must solve the mystery before they end up in body bags...</p><p>And Lexa and Clarke, like, get together, you know?  Also, this is totally set in 1988. </p><p>[Lexa and Clarke do not and will not die, scout's honor]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Is Why Events Unnerve Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Again. 
> 
> The title of this story comes from a song by The Smiths [Pretty Girls Make Graves was also a band not too long ago]. 
> 
> I got this idea in my head the other day, so I decide to go with it and start writing. I would say Scream, Halloween, Twin Peaks, and Stranger Things influenced this one. I just hope my story doesn't come off too self-indulgent. I was an '80s/'90s kid, and I love everything horror and post-punk. The music and the movies I mention throughout are awesome, by the way. Anyway. I wanted to put Lexa and Clarke in this world, in the 1980s, in a slasher movie/murder mystery setting because I wanted to do something fun and different. I don't think there's too many stories like this in our fandom, but if there are, please link me! Because I want to read them. 
> 
> I have a loose outline, so I'll update tags and warnings as I go along.
> 
> Please leave kudos or comments if you feel inspired to. I don't have a Tumblr, but I want to engage with you, so drop me a question or a criticism or a random whatever. Thank you for reading!

 

 

 

A psychology textbook, a tablet with countless pages covered in doodles and scribbles, and a bowl of buttery popcorn lay on the bed while Donald Pleasence announced in a foreboding lilt, ‘Death has come to your little town, sheriff.  You can either ignore it, or you can help me to stop it.’

Clarke Griffin had watched _Halloween_ fourteen and a half times since she first viewed it at the local movie theater in 1978.  As a precocious ten-year-old, she used to devour black and white horror films with her father every weekend, like _Psycho_ and _The Thing From Another World_ and _The Night of the Living Dead_ , and sparkling blue eyes grew wide and became glued to the television whenever a brief advertisement for _Halloween_ came on during a commercial break.  That eerie, intense piano score, the white-masked figure lurking in the dark, the spine-chilling screams of Jamie Lee Curtis as she tumbled down the stairs, Clarke decided she had to see it play out on the big screen.  She had begged her father to take her on a crisp November afternoon, after it had been out for a week or two, when there was no longer a line of curious people wrapped around the block to witness Michael Myers stalking teenage babysitters one-by-one, and promised her mother that she would be brave, ‘extra brave,’ that she would not return home later that evening and lose sleep to disturbing nightmares of blood and murder and a masked maniac.  

 _Halloween_ was the scariest movie Clarke had ever seen.  It still was, ten years later, right up there with _Black Christmas_ and _The Texas Chainsaw Massacare_.  She remembered sitting in the dim movie theater, surrounded by adults and immature high school students, feeling confident that she could handle her first R-rated film, but that self-assuredness quickly dissipated when the lights cut out and that spooky, instantly recognizable music started playing over the opening credits as a menacing jack-o’-lantern got closer and closer, bigger and bigger.  Her heart thumped against her chest, and her small hands maintained a death grip on the arms of the chair from beginning to end, for an hour and a half.  She loved every minute of it.

A sudden rapping at the rickety window startled Clarke, and she glanced over to see Finn Collins and his charming smile crouched on the flat, lower roof outside her bedroom.  Dating him for two months, what a whirlwind romance, had been a mistake because she had no idea he was seeing her roommate at the same time.  Breaking up with him had been bittersweet because he was fun and easy and handsome with dark and soulful eyes.  Forging a genuine and platonic friendship with him had been surprisingly effortless. Clarke huffed out a frustrated sigh, approached the window, and pushed it up.  “I’m busy, not tonight, Finn.  Raven is going to have a cow if she sees you.  How did you even get up here anyway?”

“Oh, come on, princess.”  Finn climbed inside and pulled Clarke into a friendly embrace while she kept her arms crossed.  “You seem tense.  When was the last time you got laid?”  He pulled back to face her, and a stupid, satisfied grin stretched across his lips as she rolled her eyes and nudged him away.  Finn was a sweet, endearing jerk.  He liked to get under her skin. “Whoa, that long, huh?”

“Finn?  Shut up.”  Eight months, it had been eight months since Clarke was physically intimate with someone.  It had been a subpar hook-up at a Valentine’s Day party with a girl who turned out to be a pillow queen.  Clarke actually had to ask her to throw her a bone and put her hand in her underwear to get her off and then had to direct her for the whole ten minutes since she lacked basic knowledge of the female anatomy and communication skills.  What a lousy lay.    

Finn ran a hand through his floppy hair.  He stood with his hands at his waist and scanned the room.  It had been at least a year since he had been in the house.  He enjoyed being as close to Clarke as he could, as close as she would let him, for he knew he was one of the chosen few that she opened up to and shared her secrets and dreams with.  Finn chuckled and gestured to the wall behind the bed, “I see you still have that creepy poster up there.  I love how it goes Prince, Madonna, _The Evil Dead_ , Janet Jackson, New Kids on the Block.”  He glanced over at the television just in time to see Michael Myers claim another victim and admire his handiwork with a butcher knife.  “Do you ever wonder if you would survive in a horror movie?”

Clarke smirked and shrugged her shoulders, “I may have thought about it once or twice.  I think I have a decent shot of making it to the end.  I mean, there are, like, four general rules to follow:  Don’t have sex; don’t be a mega bitch or a total asshole; don’t trip on nothing while being chased; and don’t aim to injure or incapacitate, aim to kill and make every shot and stab and swing count.  If you’re dealing with pure evil though, like Freddy Krueger or Michael Myers or Jason Voorhees…”  She looked up at Finn and his raised eyebrows.  “I may have thought about it more than once or twice.” 

“Well, I would be a dead man for sure.  What, I’m twenty-one and a red-blooded American.  I need sex, and I’m an asshole.”    

Clarke chuckled and shook her head.  She went over to the window, closing it and taking a peek outside at the slice of suburbia behind the pane of glass.  Fancy houses, white picket fences, well-lit streetlamps and cordial neighbors who greeted each other and walked their golden retrievers pretty much summed up Maple Street.  She moved to the area two years ago, when she got accepted to Derry State College after high school, because her mother insisted that she use her inheritance to buy property in a safe and affluent part of town.  As she wrote out a check for two hundred thousand dollars to the realtor, her hand shook and her knee bounced under the table.  The chicken scratch signature she scribbled in cursive did not even resemble her own.     

“Hey, I meant to ask, whose car was parked out in the driveway?  It was a black, Volkswagen Rabbit.”  Finn slumped down on the bed, sprawled out, and linked his fingers under his head on the pillow.  “Don’t tell me Raven is still seeing that Wick dick?” 

Clarke turned around and pursed her lips to fight off the foolish smile that threaten to break through.  Lexa Woods drove a black, Volkswagen Rabbit, which meant she was more than likely downstairs hanging out with Lincoln and Octavia in the living room.  The first time she ever saw her was in late spring, five months ago, when the unpredictable weather finally turned pleasant and temperate, when the campus quad was abuzz with hacky-sackers and frisbee-throwers, when the Magnolia trees went through their annual process and regained their vibrant leaves and pink and white blossoms.  Clarke was sitting on a bench and reading Stephen King’s _It_ outside of Craven Hall.  As Lexa approached her in a Joy Division t-shirt and tight black jeans and asked for a spare cigarette, she noticed one hell of a jawline and killer cheekbones.  Long, brunette hair was a tangle of complex braids, and striking, light green eyes popped against the black makeup that encircled them.  What a babe.  Once her brain reactivated and she trusted that she would not drool on herself, Clarke answered that she did not smoke, and Lexa just smirked, nodded her head, and walked away. 

“That car belongs to Lexa Woods.”

 “What is Lexa Woods doing in your house?  Shouldn’t she be locked up in jail right about now?”

 

* * *

 

‘Ceremony’ by New Order was one of Lexa Woods’ favorite songs.  She lounged on the stiff plaid couch, black boots propped up on the rectangular coffee table, and gazed at a corner of the living room, where the wall met the ceiling, as a dark and jangly guitar riff and strong and simple drumbeats pummeled her ears.  She always considered it to be a sad song, but the entire brilliant composition filled her heart to the brim with love.  She could listen to it forever. 

Unobtrusive footsteps shifted her attention to the creaky staircase on the far side of the room.  Her line of sight skimmed over Octavia Blake and her boyfriend, Lincoln Forrester, canoodling on the La-Z-Boy recliner they shared, blissfully oblivious to the world, and casually zeroed in on Clarke Griffin as she entered the kitchen and removed two cold beers from the refrigerator. 

Lexa had maybe spoken a total of twenty words to Clarke since she was formally introduced to her at a punk show over the summer, most of them being various exchanges of ‘Hi’ and ‘Hey.’  Club Romero was the name of the venue that she liked to frequent when she wanted to see live music, raw and loud, powerful and vivacious.  Lexa stood against the wall by the bar, the one with cool and artsy Sonic Youth and Beat Happening posters, and sipped her Tom Collins until only ice and a slice of lime remained.  She tossed the plastic cup in the trash, headed for the exit to smoke a cigarette, and pushed the door open, and she was instantly greeted by Clarke Griffin and misty rain, light and rejuvenating, that left her face impossibly clear and fresh and her bright eyes an unreal and elusive shade of blue.  Lexa had not even noticed Lincoln and Octavia standing behind her until names and handshakes were shared. 

Clarke popped the tab on one can.  The beer tasted cheap, like gasoline, but it would do its job and give her a buzz if she chugged it down.  When she looked up, she found intense green eyes staring back at her.  Clarke offered Lexa a gentle grin, but her focus moved to the empty cushion next to her, the spot that Costia Palmer usually occupied.  Costia was not only gorgeous with immaculate black skin and a perfectly toned body, but she was a social butterfly and charismatic to the max too. Clarke remembered her smile more than anything, always warm and radiant and toothy. 

Costia Palmer had disappeared a month ago. 

Photocopied signs with a black and white picture of the college student had been plastered all over campus and all across town, asking for information and offering a monetary reward, but there were no leads in the case yet.  For a story that was covered on the local news on a daily basis, only fuzzy details had been released to the public.  It was rumored that Lexa was the last known person to see her before she went missing.

The disc jockey of the college radio station awkwardly interrupted Depeche Mode’s 'Get the Balance Right' with breaking news.  Ears suddenly perked up.  Clarke froze as she was about to take another gulp of beer.  Lincoln and Octavia put a cease to their nuzzling and murmurs of affection.  Lexa swallowed and felt the thickness in her throat as she braced herself for the worst. 

Another girl, another college student at Derry State University, Zoe Monroe, had been reported missing.

 

 

 


	2. The Beating Of Our Hearts Is The Only Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this to OneSpaceAfterAPeriod!anon. What a tough habit to break. I really had no idea double-spacing was looked down upon. Anyway. Enjoy!

 

 

Ripley Lake was a small body of water that stretched from the library to the Argento Building on the northwest side of campus. Clarke walked along the cement path until she came to a small bridge and leaned over its metal railing, catching her blurry reflection and the vivid explosions of red and orange and yellow leaves of the birch trees on the shiny, vacillating surface. She wondered if Costia Palmer and Zoe Monroe ever stood in the same spot and admired the beauty of the water and the rich color palate that surrounded it, the serenity of melodious communication among finches and warblers and black-capped chickadees. Clarke wanted to be hopeful and optimistic, but she had a cynical streak in her, the part that kept her realistic when her heart inflated with too much expectation. She felt guilty every time the thought invaded her brain, but the chances of the two college students being found alive had to be slim to none.

“Yo, Clarke!”    

Clarke turned her head as Raven Reyes limped her way to the bridge and settled next to her, trademark ponytail, red down jacket, and cocksure smile, a short stack of textbooks clutched to her hip.  Thanks to Finn, their friendship had gone through a rocky period of silent treatment and passive aggressiveness, culminating in a pathetic physical fight, pushing and shoving, that dissolved into a wrestling match on the plush living room carpet with much laughter and many creative uses of swear words as they struggled for victory.  It had been a draw, and their mutual love and respect had won out in the end. ‘Fuck boys,’ Raven had declared and helped Clarke get up from the floor.   

“You want to grab lunch at Nostromo?” Raven asked as she bumped her shoulder into Clarke.  Nostromo was the local diner a block away, down a side street near the sports stadium, and it was the place to go for a quick bite to eat or a sweet snack in between classes. Cheese pizza and soft-serve ice cream were her weaknesses.   

“Sure. Here, let me carry your books for you.” Clarke adjusted the black JanSport backpack slung over her shoulder, and Raven reluctantly accepted her help instead of spouting off her usual ‘fuck off’ when anyone else tried to make her life easier out of pity. The injury that resulted in permanent damage to her left leg had been caused by a single bullet fired by some lowlife as he robbed the convenience store she worked at as a teenager. The bullet had become lodged in her spine, and a risky surgery had to be performed if she ever wanted to walk again. Many painful steps and physical therapy appointments later, she considered it to be a minor success because she could stand on her own two feet again and go from point A to point B without flailing and collapsing in a heap of limbs.  Raven accepted her fate, it was better that way, for her leg was as good as it was ever going to get. “So, Zoe Monroe, huh?” 

Raven glanced over at her as they strolled in the direction of Nostromo. It had been two days since it was announced that the college student had vanished without a trace. “I was waiting for you to bring that up. Costia Palmer disappears in September, on Labor Day, and Monroe goes missing exactly one month later. Why? What’s the connection?”   

“Well, what if there is no connection?”

“Oh, get real. We both know that these are not two separate, unrelated cases. Costia and Monroe are not off frolicking in greener pastures. Costia and Monroe are in deep shit, if they’re not already dead meat and maggot chow.” Raven paused at the crosswalk and boldly proceeded to hobble across the street as she made traffic slow to a stop, and Clarke followed a step or two behind.  “What do you think, alien abduction? Space _is_ infinite and incomprehensible.”     

An eyebrow lifted and soft lips parted and closed again as Clarke considered the ludicrous theory. She never missed an episode of _Unsolved Mysteries_ , but she was skeptical when it came to signs of intelligent life beyond Earth and turned the channel whenever segments on alien abduction with crackpots and hillbillies were featured. “What about a sex slave ring?”

“Hmm, interesting, there are _way_ too many sick perverts out there in the world.” Raven and Clarke rounded the corner, and the weathered sign for Nostromo and the establishment itself, made of large windows and plum and burnt sienna bricks, became visible in the short distance. “One more idea. Two words: Patty Hearst. What if Costia and Monroe were kidnapped by some radical terrorist organization and abused and brainwashed to the point of taking up their cause and committing heinous crimes on their behalf?” 

Clarke entered Nostromo as Raven held open the glass door for her. The Bangles’ ‘In Your Room,’ flirty and energetic, flowed from the ceiling speakers. Clarke selected a booth in the back of the room and placed her bag and the textbooks on the white tabletop. The blunt and gruesome words her friend had used earlier, ‘dead meat and maggot chow,’ continued to conjure images of decayed flesh covered in little white larvae in her macabre mind. She cautiously looked over at Raven and asked in a hushed voice, “What if we have a serial killer in our little town?”     

“Like the Original Night Stalker? That creepy motherfucker is still out there and hasn’t been caught.”

“The Original Night Stalker is savage and flamboyant though. He taunts his victims at the murder scene and makes obscene phone calls to girls he attacked and sexually assaulted. I don’t see him straying from California. He’s not, like, Ted Bundy. Ted Bundy started in Washington, traveled to Utah and Colorado, and ended up in Florida, killing over thirty girls along the way. I would say we have more of an H.H. Holmes on our hands here, clean and local, methodical and inconspicuous.” Clarke glanced up and noticed Raven’s amused grin. “What?”

“You are one twisted soul. I like it, I don’t know why you know this shit, but I like it.” Raven put her arm around Clarke’s shoulders. “I’m hungry. Let’s get pizza.” They walked to the cashier behind the counter and placed an order for two slices of cheese pizza, a side of fresh-cut fries, and two glass bottles of Coca-Cola. Raven pulled out a ten-dollar-bill, but Clarke stopped her and insisted that she take care of lunch.  “All right, moneybags, but you have to promise to let me treat you next time.”

Clarke returned to her side of the booth, took a sip of her Coke, and Raven sat across from her as they waited for their food. Derry State College memorabilia and black and white photographs of campus life from the 1950s adorned the white walls. One picture was a shot of a couple from behind, holding hands, walking through the library. “So, how are you and your guy?”

Raven smiled, mischief in her dark brown eyes. “Which one? Me and Wick are done. He got stupid and equated good sex with love and then asked me to be his girlfriend. Can you believe him? His goddamn girlfriend.” She shook her head, still incredulous a week after the conversation had taken place. “I got wasted at a party over the weekend, the one I tried to drag you to, and I hooked up with Roan. Also, don’t tell Octavia, but I slept with Bellamy the other night. I just showed up at his dorm room. I don’t even know what got into me. It feels good to take what you want, you know? What do you want, Clarke?”

Lexa and her tan skin, her serious green eyes, and her sharp features with a cherry and rainbow sprinkles on top. It was rare for Clarke to have a real crush on someone, to inspire her to convert crucial thoughts of medicine and the future to silly little fantasies that would never happen in a million years. She shrugged her shoulders, “Well, there is one person, but she doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

“I’m so sure. Here, watch this, Clarke.” Raven rolled her eyes in dramatic and exaggerated fashion. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You are hot, white hot. You’re a blonde babe with big tits, and you’re the best person I know. I swear, you’re going to save the world someday. Who is this girl? A major dweeb. I say, dump her.”

A soft laugh escaped her, and Clarke propped her elbow on the table and held her cheek in her hand. She loved Raven, a sentiment not often expressed by either one of them, but she loved her and her brash straightforwardness. “She’s totally unattainable, but she is seriously intriguing. I just want to get to know her. I guess I should go up and try to talk to her, huh? Something about her makes me nervous though. She’s got this smug, pouty, brooding thing going on, and God, she looks so fine doing it.”

“Is _she_ actually Morrissey? Because she sounds a lot like Morrissey.” Raven took a drink of Coke, and the cashier delivered their pizza and french fries to the table. She made it a goal over the summer to find out which pizza joint offered the best slice of pie in town, and Nostromo came out on top with excellent cheese to sauce to crust ratio, awesome and flavorful every time. They scarfed down lunch and chugged their sodas once Raven realized she had to motor to get to her next class in time. Clarke offered to walk with her since she had nowhere to be for the rest of the day. “You carry my books, you buy me lunch, and you want to walk me to Calculus? You are quite a catch, Clarke Griffin. Let’s jet.”

 

* * *

 

A red-orange, 1980 Volvo 240, boxy and solid and built like a tank, pulled into the gas station, drove over the signal hose, ringing a tinny bell connected to the garage, and parked at a gas pump. Clarke rolled down her window and dug through her backpack to locate her wallet while she waited for the attendant to come out and service her car.

“Hi.”

That soft, even, unmistakable tone was pure sex. Clarke looked up and found Lexa staring back at her from the driver-side window. She blinked once and then twice, and her mouth went slightly agape; the black makeup that typically surrounded her green eyes was completely absent, and she wore a short-sleeved, gray button-up shirt with blue pinstripes and splotches of oil and grease. “Oh, hey, I didn’t know you worked here. How are you?”

“I’m okay.” Lexa was not okay. The last month had consisted of cold sweats and sleepless nights. Her body was off, her appetite was off, and her concentration was off. Costia was the sun, bright and iridescent, and Lexa was the lonely planet that was lucky enough to orbit around her and benefit from her constant light and warmth and energy. When Costia disappeared, Earth may as well have tipped upside down on its axis.

Lexa reeled in her faraway expression and fixed her gaze on a pretty, heart-shaped face and blue eyes that reminded her of the night sky on a full moon. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as her ears tuned into the song playing on the radio, ‘I Think We’re Alone Now’ by Tiffany. She considered herself a music snob, opting for new wave and post-punk over bubblegum pop any day, but on the Tiffany vs. Debbie Gibson rivalry, the mall concert wars, she thought Debbie Gibson had a better set of pipes. She also had a thing for blondes, and ‘Foolish Beat’ _was_ a good song. “What can I do for you?”

“Fill me up?”

“Sure thing," Lexa nodded her head and went around to the passenger side, fiddled with the gas pump, and lifted the appropriate lever. She accessed the fuel tank, inserted the nozzle inside, and squeezed the handle, pulling down a metal clip to hold it in place.

Clarke undid her seatbelt and got out of the car when Lexa approached the windshield with a dripping wet squeegee. “You don’t have to do that.” Clarke really did not want to trouble Lexa, even if it was part of her job description. She tended to use self-serve gas stations to avoid the awkwardness of full service ones, but she decided to stop there since the fuel gauge had dipped into the red. She liked to take risks but not the kind that left her stranded on the side of the road.

Lexa returned the squeegee to the bucket of cleaner by the gas pump. She came back around to the front bumper and stuffed her hands in the front pockets of her black jeans. She stole a glance at Clarke while she leaned against the driver-side door, a lingering glance that started at shoulder-length blonde hair and descended to a red and white baseball shirt, dark blue jeans, and white, Reebok high-tops. She averted her stare to the stained cement under her black boots.

“Do you like scary movies?”

“I saw _Friday the 13th_ in the movie theater a while ago.”

“Part seven?”

“Part something.”

“The one with Jason hunting and killing teenagers in the woods, right?” Clarke smiled, and a slight grin appeared at Lexa’s pillow-soft lips. _The New Blood_ was a worthy sequel with a fresh protagonist, even if she was a blatant rip-off of Carrie White, but _Jason Lives_ was still her favorite in the series with its tongue-in-cheek humor and impressive level of suspense. She read in the latest issue of _Fangoria_ that Jason was going to take Manhattan next. Clarke cracked her knuckles, and her heart pounded in her chest. It was like sitting and watching _Halloween_ for the first time again, except rejection was far more terrifying than Michael Myers could ever be. “Do you, um, do you want to hang out sometime? I can give you a crash course on _Friday the 13th_?”

The handle of the nozzle released with a sharp click to signify maximum capacity had been reached in the fuel tank. A string of police cars suddenly raced around the bend and passed the gas station in a flurry of flashing lights and screaming sirens and headed down the street in the direction of the college.

Lexa and Clarke looked at each other in petrified silence.

Four miles away, in MacReady Park, a short hike from the southeast side of campus, the dead body of a decapitated female, pale and naked, had been discovered floating down the Childs River before she washed up in shallow water, in a mess of mud and rocks and wet leaves.

Her head had been found further downstream.   

Costia Palmer was no longer missing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention this is going to be a bit of a slow burn for Lexa and Clarke? Not too slow though. I'm too impatient for that. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Also, if the many music and movie references get to be eye-roll inducing, let me know, but I'm having a lot of fun with it. I hope you are too!


	3. Sing Me To Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this to whoever writes the Mass Effect AU I begged for the other day. 
> 
> We come across some new victims - I mean, characters.
> 
> The build-up to Lexa and Clarke is on...

 

 

‘There is another world. There is a better world. Well, there must be,’ Morrissey crooned in a soft and soothing voice on The Smiths' ‘Asleep,’ the last song on the mix tape before the stop button would click and fill the air with unwelcomed silence, and Lexa would have to crawl out of bed and flip it over again, like she had done about forty-five minutes earlier. ‘He sings like a girl,’ Costia used to tease, ‘He sings like a weirdo.’  

Lexa had recorded the mix tape in the middle of January, a total of eighteen songs, the saddest of the sad, that caused her heart to ache and her stomach to clench, and she had confined herself to her bedroom and wallowed in depression, uncertainty, and loneliness as she ruminated on her seismic breakup with Costia. The words, after a long and nonsensical ramble, were crystal clear, ‘I don’t think I’m in love with you anymore,’ and Lexa petulantly suggested that it would have been much more merciful to punch her through the chest and rip her heart out instead. Their love for each other had been deep and fierce, tinged with naiveté and sweet innocence, but it was not meant to last forever, not in the romantic sense anyway. It took Lexa about four months to get over Costia, on a random and sunny afternoon, when a beautiful girl had glanced up from a daunting book with a paper boat and a sewer drain on the cover and smiled at her in a strange daze.

The cassette tape clicked off, and swollen green eyes fluttered open in the gloom underneath the sheet and blankets. She poked her head out and immediately winced as the sun broke through the sheer curtain garnishing the window and hit her square in the face. She continued to lay and blink back fresh tears as reality set in again, that Costia was dead, that her death had been the opposite of quick and painless, that she was never going to hear her infectious laughter or her blasphemous insults of Morrissey ever again.

Lexa inhaled a shaky breath and exhaled a quiet sob. She slipped out of the covers, planted her feet on the rough carpet, and held her face in her hands. She trained herself to expect the worst and started to accept that Costia was gone for good, but the glimmer of hope she clung to, that goddamn glimmer of hope, refused to leave her heart and the abyssal recesses of her brain where her wishes and desires dwelled. Crushing devastation was a bitch.

Lexa got up and went over to the stereo to flip the cassette tape to the other side. ‘Leave Me Alone’ by New Order started to play after a moment, catchy and melancholy, and she returned to her bed and rested on her back, placing a forearm over irritated eyes that would not stop fucking crying. She heard the turn of the doorknob and the low squeak of hinges that thirsted for 3-In-One oil. “Get out.”

Anya Tupelo stood in the doorway with her arms crossed and listened to her friend sniffle. She moved to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. “You can’t stay in here forever.” She glanced over at the stereo as Bernard Sumner finally started to sing in his flat, unpolished, vulnerable tone, ‘On a thousand islands in the sea, I see a thousand people just like me.’ “And I can’t listen to this shit on repeat anymore.” Anya looked down at Lexa and released a deep sigh. This version of her roommate was weak and small and foreign to her, and she had known Lexa since she was an adolescent with a calm and quiet confidence, a rare quality for a punk teenager from the wrong side of the tracks. “What time did you get home from the police station the other night?" 

“Eleven.” Lexa removed her forearm from her face and stared up at the white ceiling as she recalled the four-hour-long interrogation. “I don’t have a rock solid alibi for Labor Day, so we had a friendly chat about that again. I lost count of how many times the detectives asked me if I harbored any negative feelings toward Costia. Those assholes, I loved her.” Flashes of a bloated and unrecognizable face and pale, butchered skin had replaced her final memory of her ex-girlfriend. Lexa wanted to go back, back to the last time she saw her full of life and full of color. She wanted to be warm and tipsy and perched on the hood of her car while Costia stood in front of her, in the parking lot of the Gold Room, as they debated back and forth if it had been Modern English or Flock of Seagulls, ‘the dudes with the crazy hair,’ who sang ‘I Melt With You.’ That pearly, easygoing smile practically glowed in the dark, so bright and effervescent. “Did they show you the photographs when you talked to them? He cut off her head. The rest of her body was mutilated beyond belief. She was dead for four days before she was tossed in the river." 

Anya bowed her head and wracked her brain to come up with words of comfort and encouragement, but she was never good at being soft and gentle, never good at tapping into her sensitivity chip, if she even had one at all. She wanted to tell Lexa not to sweat Detective Scumbag and Detective Dickweed. She wanted to tell her that Costia would never want her to put her life on pause for even a minute, let alone five days. She wanted to tell her to get out of bed, to brush her teeth, to take a goddamn shower, and to try to put something in her belly before she withered away.

“I know, whatever you’re thinking, I know.” Lexa looked up at Anya, at the distinct angles of her face and her dark and narrow eyes, and gave her forearm a reassuring squeeze to convey that her fight was not over, that she was not going to break into a million pieces and bask in her misery forever. “I just need one more hour.”

“One more hour, or I’m going to kick your ass.”

 

* * *

 

Zoe Monroe turned up the next morning. Her mangled body was found in a shabby barn in a rural area just outside the town limits, surrounded by strung up tobacco and pools of her own crimson blood that saturated the tawny dirt under her deceased form. Clarke had driven by that gray barn on occasion, before it became a crime scene, and something about its eerie and dilapidated appearance always made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up, nighttime or daytime, it didn’t matter.

Clarke leaned against the side of the _Galaga_ arcade cabinet, sipped her delicious Orange Julius, and scanned the room. It was a small space, a noisy and crowded space, mostly inhabited by annoying teenagers and college students who were determined to conquer high scores and leave their legacy behind in the form of their meaningless initials. She spotted a pretty girl who looked to be around her age playing _Double Dragon_ , Ontari something, Ontari Smelt, shifting the joystick and frantically mashing the buttons to beat up her enemies, and she wondered if she was ever going to have to see a photo of her on the local news because she had gone missing or had been murdered in a grisly manner.

Clarke saw Bellamy Blake on the other side of the room, hovering next to Luna Dinghy as she played _Out Run_ and struggled to stay on the road and not smash into palm trees around wide turns. He smiled when he noticed her noticing him and jerked his chin up in her direction, in a silent greeting, and Clarke lifted her eyebrows and waved back. Bellamy was good-looking, with messy black hair, a muscular physique, and a smattering of freckles across his chiseled face. She used to think he was arrogant and impetuous and too overprotective of Octavia, but she got to learn a different facet of him when they were partnered up for a group project in United States Social History. When he stopped being a condescending jerk-off and actually took the time to listen to her ideas and opinions, a positive dynamic developed, and they both realized that they could actually get along and work rather well together. 

Clarke still couldn’t believe that Raven had sex with him.

“Clarke? Earth to Clarke.”

Clarke glanced up at Finn and craned her neck to peek at the screen. “’Game over.’ You want to go?” Clarke followed him out of the arcade and walked with him through Savini Galleria, passing Radio Shack, Kay-Bee Toys, and Contempo Casuals. She thought of _Dawn of the Dead_ whenever she stepped foot in the mall, thought of greed and capitalism, thought of how mindless consumers had more in common with shuffling zombies, starving for the next cool toy and the next hip trend instead of worrying about poverty or the environment or the HIV/AIDS epidemic. “Is this weird? This feels too normal. Some psychopath is out there, and we’re playing _Galaga_ and window shopping.”

“Fun is good. This is okay. You need a distraction.” Finn directed them to a bench near Sears and a decorative fountain, a constant geyser of water gushing and splashing in a shallow pool, and Clarke shared her icy, creamy citrus drink with him when they sat down. “I just hope that distraction is not Bellamy Blake. I saw the way you were scoping him out in the arcade. That guy is bad news.”

“Me? Bellamy Blake? As if.” Clarke scoffed and shook her head. Finn could be so stupid and ridiculous, especially when he indulged in that white knight routine. She certainly did not need to be saved or rescued, not from Bellamy or anyone else. “I have no interest in him, Finn, even if there is a nice guy under that tough exterior.”

“You have to look out for the nice guys.”

“So, I have to look out for you?”

Finn slurped up the remaining juice through the straw and threw the empty cup in the trash. “Me? Nice? As if.” He turned to her and flashed a shit-eating grin. “Do you think we’re going to have class tomorrow or what? I’m leaning toward no. I have a test in Biology that I would prefer to push off to another day since I haven’t even cracked open the chapter yet.”

Clarke clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. “Costia and Monroe are dead, a lunatic is on the loose, and you’re worried about failing a fucking test? Oh, to be a white, heterosexual male, to gain access to outrageous privilege just because you were born with a dick. The world is your oyster but never mind the girls who go missing and end up in body bags. Do you think this is over? Because I think this madman is just getting started.”

“Okay, Gloria Steinem, go burn a bra, don’t get your panties in a bunch.” Finn turned toward Clarke and found piercing blue eyes stabbing him in the face. “I’m sorry, Clarke, I’m an asshole.” He cautiously put his arm around her. His strong and fearless ex-girlfriend was scared, and that realization made him a little scared too. “You’re freaked out, huh?”

“Every single girl in this town is freaked out. This shit is our worst nightmare come true.”

 

* * *

 

It was not uncommon to come home to a roaring chainsaw and bloodcurdling screams. Octavia fit her key into the lock of the front door and entered the living room to see a man wearing a crude, fucked-up mask driving a chainsaw into the body of a paraplegic teenager on the glowing television screen. She glanced over to the kitchen, threw Clarke and Raven an incredulous look, and then closed and locked the front door. “Are you serious?” A beat. “What smells so good?”

Octavia took off her blue denim jacket, draped it on the back of the recliner, and made her way to the warm kitchen. Clarke stood at the electric frying pan stirring a concoction of butter, sour cream, egg noodles, sliced mushrooms, and thin strips of steak, and Raven sat on top of the ceramic-tiled counter, ‘supervising,’ leg swaying to-and-fro, hands gripping the edge. Octavia pulled open the oven door and found a pan of vanilla cupcakes baking, “Oh my God, you’re cooking, _and_ you’re baking. Did I just cross over to _The Twilight Zone_?” 

Raven chirped the famous theme song as Octavia rooted in the refrigerator for her last can of Tab. “Oh, you’re traveling through another dimension, all right, but your next stop is ‘The _Love_ Zone.’” Raven smiled, proud and clever, and watched as Octavia slowly shifted her head in her direction, confused. “I figured out that Lexa is Morrissey.” Octavia scrunched her eyebrows, still confused. “Clarke wants to do it with Lexa.”

“Yeah, duh,” Octavia answered as she moved the carton of orange juice, the purple stuff, and the bottle of Sunny Delight and discovered her pink can of soda, the refrigerator door automatically closing behind her. Clarke was plucky and opinionated, but in the presence of Lexa, Octavia thought that she seemed timid and awkward. Clarke Griffin was afraid of a moody, albeit attractive girl, and Clarke Griffin was not afraid of anything.    

“You know I’m still here, right? Wait, what do you mean, ‘Yeah, duh’?” Clarke set down the wooden spoon, powered off the electric frying pan, and turned around. She hoped that she had kept those little grins and dreamy sighs and stolen glances a secret. She wondered if she had been an inside joke in conversations among Lexa, Anya, Costia, and Lincoln. “Am I that transparent?”  

“Are you that blind?” Octavia could still remember how Lexa could not keep her eyes off of Clarke at that punk show a few months back. A beaming smile, a genuine laugh, a sample of subtle sarcasm, and one or two sentences about a humdrum day, that was all it took, and the tough and sullen girl was hooked on Clarke, interested and enraptured. Octavia had never seen Lexa look at anyone the way she looked at Clarke, not even Costia, like a cross between a shy puppy dog and a hungry werewolf.

“The eye-sex _totally_ goes both ways,” Raven chimed in as she carefully hopped off the counter and checked on the cupcakes. She removed the pan with a cheap oven mitt, setting it on top of the stove with a clatter of metal. “So, why haven’t you made a move on her? Why haven’t you made a move on _anybody_? You’re one of those greedy, switch-hitting bisexuals. You have the best of both worlds.”  

Clarke chuckled and opened a cabinet door, the one with the food storage containers, and reached for a Pyrex bowl and the glass lid that went with it while on her tiptoes. “I don’t know, with Lexa, she and Costia were, like, this sacred thing. They were close, enmeshed, consumed, and they had that special spark that could just reignite at any moment. Why would I ever mess with that? How could I ever mess with that now?” Clarke sighed, shrugged her shoulders and turned back to the electric frying pan, shoveling spoonfuls of beef stroganoff into the ceramic bowl. “I think I’m just meant to be alone. I watched this nature program on the Arctic Circle a while ago. The last shot focused on this polar bear wandering around in solitude, in the ice and snow, and the camera slowly zoomed out until all you saw was this fuzzy dot and this great big nothingness.”    

“You are not a polar bear. You never have to wander the world alone when you have me and Raven,” Octavia assured Clarke and pulled her friend into a tender hug. Raven joined them, putting an arm around each of their shoulders, planting a quick kiss to both of their cheeks. “This moment would be so much better with Cyndi Lauper and ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun.’” Octavia glanced over at the television, the source of the distracting screams, and saw a scrawny, middle-aged man slapping and beating a terrified young woman with a broom. “What the hell are you even watching?”

Clarke slipped out of the friendly embrace. “ _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ , anyway, this is for Lexa.” She fit the glass lid on top of the bowl and presented it to Octavia. “I don’t know if she’s hungry or if she even likes beef stroganoff, but I remember I always appreciated it when – I don’t know, I just thought, comfort food, you know? Do you think you can drop it off to her before it gets too late?”  

Octavia and her steely green eyes softened, and she nodded her head. “Sure, if you come with.” She finally popped the tab on her soda and took a sip, the carbonation burning her throat. “Anya scares the shit out of me.”

 

* * *

 

Green eyes snapped open, alive with fear and frenzy. Lexa threw the covers off of her head and sat up in bed, her face covered with a light sheen of sweat. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled and then repeated the exercise in an effort to lower her heart rate. She stared out the window and tried to guess what time it was, going by the shade of blue of the sky. She remembered she had drifted off to sleep not long after sundown, while Anya watched _Jeopardy_ in the living room; she could hear her playing along with the game show contestants, stating the answers in the forms of questions, spitting out an occasional ‘fuck you’ if she guessed incorrectly. Lexa shifted her attention to the digital alarm clock on top of the dresser and squinted to make out the time. It was going on midnight.

Lexa rolled out of bed, wiped the crust from her eyes, and combed her fingers through her brunette locks, wavy and unbraided. She opened the door and stepped out into the short hallway, and she could make out excited coos and high-pitched moans coming from the living room. Lexa walked toward the exaggerated noises and saw Anya sitting on the couch watching bad lesbian porn and eating a vanilla cupcake with chocolate frosting. She slumped down on the cushion next to her and cringed in disgust at the sloppy and obnoxious tongue-kissing going on between the two women with gaudy makeup and long-ass, painted fingernails.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“We had company earlier. Octavia and her hot, blonde roommate came over to check on you.” Anya stuffed the last bite of cupcake into her mouth and then got up to grab a beer from the refrigerator in the kitchen. “Do you know if she’s single?” She brought a cold one out for Lexa too and handed it to her. She took note of her stiff and serious expression. “What’s with you?”

Lexa shook her head, “Nothing.” She thought of the gas station and the unfinished conversation she had with Clarke last week, a lifetime ago. In the blank moments, when her mind went calm and clear, between haunting nightmares and fond memories of Costia and disturbing fantasies of revenge, she wondered if Clarke Griffin had asked her out on a date. The more she hoped, the more she convinced herself that Clarke was out of her league, the brains and the body and the money and the preference for dick. “I don’t know. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree with Clarke.”

“Do you think Clarke is straight?” Anya asked, her lips stretching into an amused grin. “I happen to know for a fact that she eats pussy like she means it.” She watched as Lexa blinked and noticeably swallowed hard. “Do you remember that Valentine's Day party? You didn’t go because you were too busy being lame and feeling sorry for yourself. I went for a bit and was bored out of my skull. I decided to bolt and barged into the bedroom where I stashed my jacket, and there was Clarke, she was going to town on some girl like a fucking champ.”

Lexa took a swig of beer and shifted her gaze to the beige carpet while she listened to the slurps and squishes and cries of pleasure on the television. She tried to imagine what Clarke would look like with her beautiful face between her legs, and a pang of guilt caused her to push the idea right out of her head. She lifted her chin, turned toward Anya, and cleared her throat, “Well, I hope you left and gave her privacy.”

“No, Lexa, I stood there, stuck my hand in my pants, and told her to ‘keep going.’” Anya laughed and shook her head. She pushed the stop button on the remote, the screen instantly blue, and stood up from the couch. “I’m beat, I’m going to bed. You should eat something. Clarke made you Hamburger Helper, and those cupcakes that she baked are really fucking good.” Anya chugged the remainder of her beer, set the bottle on the counter, and grabbed another cupcake before she disappeared down the hallway to her bedroom.

Lexa felt her stomach rumble for the first time in almost a week. She had been taking bites of toast and apple slices here and there, but her body was ready for a little more nourishment. She got up, opened the refrigerator door, and removed the Pyrex bowl. A slight smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she read the sticky note attached to the glass lid: ‘I hope you’re hungry – Clarke.’ Lexa dished out a tiny portion of beef stroganoff on a plate and stuck it in the microwave. She took her sweet time as she ate it, savoring the steak and noodles and the tasty cream sauce, and then went back for seconds.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and supporting this little story. Your feedback and comments are so appreciated. I'm going for a balance of light and dark here, so I hope I pulled that off. I know death and murder is going on, but Lexa and Clarke still have the hots for each other, you know?


	4. Your Kiss So Sweet, Your Sweat So Sour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this to Brenda Strong. 
> 
> So much Lexa and Clarke. So many mentions of movies...

 

 

Raimi Video was sandwiched between a nail salon and a tobacco shop. Posters for _The Running Man_ , _Spaceballs_ , and _Adventures in Babysitting_ were displayed in the large windows, secured to the inside of the glass with clear adhesive tape. Clarke entered the store, through a set of glass doors that may as well have been the pearly gates of heaven, and a welcomed wave of comfort and euphoria washed over and drowned out the yucky feelings that had crept up and put her on edge lately. Raimi Video was her sanctuary.

John Murphy slouched over the counter and looked bored as shit as he waited to ring up customers and get them the hell out of the store. He was four hours in on his shift, with four more to go, and he already suffered through _The Chipmunk Adventure_ two times and was in the middle of his third viewing. He wanted to put on something more appetizing, like _Robocop_ or _Predator_ , fuck store policy, fuck his douchebag manager, fuck sheltered children and their overly concerned parents if a little gore and violence bothered them. The world was a scary and violent place anyway. He thought it was good to get exposure to those harsh realities sooner rather than later.

John Murphy didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything.

He was shrewd and selfish, negative and opportunistic, that’s how he presented, that’s how he wanted to be perceived, and Clarke had quickly written him off as a loser dickhead. Her opinion of him changed the day she came to Raimi Video for the first time after her father had passed away. While browsing the classic titles she used to watch with him, like _The Blob_ , _Rear Window_ , and _Frankenstein_ , when she was ten-years-old and nestled safely next to him, her valiant protector from bad men and grotesque monsters, Clarke felt unexpected tears reach her eyes and overflow down her cheeks in sad, salty rivulets. Murphy had tapped her on the shoulder, handed her a tissue, and led her to the employee break room where he offered her Swedish Fish and Hi-C Ecto Cooler. He was so clueless when it came to emotional intelligence, but she had to give him credit for being decent and trying to cheer her up.     

Clarke smiled and threw Murphy a wave, and he saluted back, devoid of enthusiasm. _Beetlejuice_ , _Dirty Dancing_ , _The Princess Bride_ , and a variety of other posters hung on the walls. Numerous rows, hundreds of videos, separated by genre, begged to be explored. She once had the crazy, ambitious idea to rent and watch every single movie in the store, to expand her knowledge, to be more cultured and well-rounded, but she never followed through with it, opting to stick to horror and science fiction. She scanned the new releases on the shelf and came across _Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood_ and thought of Lexa. She hoped that she was okay. She hoped that her gesture of dinner and dessert was considered thoughtful and not weird and out of line. She hoped that Anya didn’t eat all of the goddamn cupcakes.

Clarke reached the end of the row and headed for the horror section in the back corner of the room. She was always fascinated by VHS cover art, vile and shameless and memorable. She especially liked the cover art for _The Return of the Living Dead_ , which featured a trio of punk zombies, one sporting a mohawk, a spiked collar, and a leather jacket. Not that clean-cut, girl-next-door Clarke was into the punk subculture, but she did appreciate its cool and rebellious aesthetic. When she rented the movie, she mistakenly thought that it was a surprise sequel to _Day of the Dead_ , but it was so fucking silly and strange. Clarke picked up the VHS box for _A Nightmare on Elm Street_ and admired the look of pure fear in Nancy Thompson’s wide eyes as a metal claw, constructed of bloody knives for fingers, hovered over her long, fanned out hair. She decided that if she ever changed her mind about becoming a doctor, she would switch careers and create gross and outlandish images to promote scary movies instead. She had a natural talent for art, a hobby that had collected dust over the years, but drawing and painting were like riding a bicycle for her. 

“Two times in two days.”

Clarke jumped, a subtle jerk in the spot she stood in, and _A Nightmare on Elm Street_ slipped out of her hands and landed on the floor. Bellamy, the owner of the deep voice, bent down and retrieved it for her. He studied the cover for a second, taking note of the title, and gave it back to her. “Thanks. Yeah, two times in two days, are you stalking me or something?”

“Joking about me stalking you when two girls were abducted and murdered? I don’t know, Clarke, but I think that’s in pretty poor taste.” Bellamy crossed his arms and skimmed the horror titles in his line of sight, and Clarke continued to give him her best ‘drop dead’ stare. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

“ _Halloween_.”

Bellamy located the VHS box for _Halloween_ and reached around Clarke to grab it. He examined the butcher knife and the wicked jack-o’-lantern on the cover and read the tagline, “’The night _he_ came home.’ I’m surprised you even watch this garbage. You always went on and on about women’s liberation in our class, yet here you are, willingly supporting something that is notorious for gratuitous sex and nudity and violence against your sisterhood. You must feel like a real hypocrite, like a fake feminist.”

Clarke chewed on her bottom lip and tried to decide if she wanted to punch him in the face or kick him hard in the balls. Bellamy enjoyed pushing and challenging her strong and solid beliefs, but she was not in the mood to spar back and forth with him, not when he had that glint of hostility in his dark eyes and was purposely trying to be a fucking asshole. “Wow, I love it when a man polices my principles and tries to simplify a complex issue to pass judgment on me. I’m also in favor of pornography, and I think prostitution should be legalized. What does the champion for women’s rights have to say about that?”

A smirk appeared at his mouth, and Bellamy crossed his arms again. “I say, you’re good. You keep up with me. Not many people can do that.” He walked around to the other side of the row and could see Clarke from over the shelf as she rolled her eyes and went back to browsing to find a movie to watch for tonight. “How is Octavia? We talk a lot, but she doesn’t say much.”

Clarke glanced up and observed the concern on his face. Bellamy could be a difficult prick, but he loved his sister, that was for sure. She selected _The Slumber Party Massacre_ and _The Dorm that Dripped Blood_ and gripped the plastic cases in her hand. It was probably a bad idea to choose a slasher movie that was set in college, too close to home, but she could be a masochist sometimes. She wanted to embrace her fear. “Octavia seems okay. She spends most of the time with Lincoln. I trust him to keep her safe.”

Bellamy nodded his head. He came back around to Clarke and tried to sneak a peek at the videos she picked out. “Well, I will be in the chick flick section if you need me.” He grinned like a smartass idiot. “I have a date with Gina Martin later. Which one do you think is better: _Dirty Dancing_ or _Can’t Buy Me Love_?”  

“ _Dirty Dancing_.”

“I’ll go with _Can’t Buy Me Love_.”

Clarke furrowed her eyebrows as Bellamy disappeared to another row, to another part of the room. She made her way to the front of the store and placed the videos on the counter. Murphy downed the rest of his Jolt Cola, smashed the can in his hand, and tossed it in the trash like a free throw. She watched him inspect each VHS tape and then put them back in their cases as he started to ring her up.

“You ever watch _Sorority House Massacre_?”

“Yeah, but I liked _The House on Sorority Row_ a lot more, that one is one of my favorites.”

“You hear about Harper McIntyre yet?”

Clarke blinked and looked up at him. She was stunned by his nonchalance for some reason, but this _was_ Murphy she was talking to. Harper McIntyre, parts of Harper McIntyre, had been discovered in the dumpster behind The Gold Room earlier in the morning. Word traveled fast, and every local news outlet was covering the story by noon. Harper had not been to her dorm in several days, but her roommate never reported her missing. Clarke thought that was the worst part of the case. Harper had been out there somewhere, alone, totally alone with a sick and demented killer, and nobody took notice of her absence until multiple trash bags had started to give off a putrid, vomit-inducing odor. “I think too much, and I’m trying not to think about it.”    

“Do you think she was still alive when he started to dismember her body?” Murphy asked out loud, and he became the next recipient of Clarke’s patented death glare. He informed her of the total, and she paid him with a five-dollar bill. He glanced up over the register and saw Bellamy reading the back of a VHS box in the comedy section. He gave Clarke her change, handed her the movies, and leaned in closer to her, “So, are you and Bellamy friends?”

Clarke shrugged her shoulders, “Sometimes.” She wished Murphy a good night and told him not to work too hard. His response was mimicking a gun shape with his hand and fingers and shooting himself in the head. She smirked, pushed open one of the glass doors, and walked outside to see Lexa sitting on the hood of her Volkswagen Rabbit, smoking a cigarette, while a song with a razor-sharp guitar riff and an infectious beat blasted from the speakers of her car, ‘Damaged Goods’ by Gang of Four. Clarke smiled in surprise and attempted to stave off the warm blush that threatened to color her cheeks. She suddenly felt like Molly Ringwald at the end of _Sixteen Candles_ , when Jake Ryan showed up at the church to take her somewhere quiet, to kiss her, to finally celebrate her and her birthday. She was tempted to look around for Anya or Lincoln, in case Lexa was actually there for one of them instead of her.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Lexa took a long drag of her cigarette and released a stream of smoke into the chilly air. She slid off the hood and stood up, and Clarke let her gaze connect with cool green eyes and observed that her long, brunette hair hung loosely over a shoulder instead of being tied up in wild braids. Lexa wore a black, acid-washed, denim jacket, a Sonic Youth t-shirt, and black jeans that fit like a glove. With her mind instantly, inappropriately in the gutter, Clarke thought her clothes would look even better on the floor of her bedroom. “I was over at the tobacco shop, and I figured that maybe this was your Volvo. I wasn’t sure until I saw the ‘George Bush for president? Just say no’ bumper sticker. I hope it was okay that I waited around for you. I just wanted to thank you for dinner last night. It was very good, and you are very kind.” Lexa stepped closer and reached to brush a strand of blonde hair out of her face, but the light breeze took care of it for her.

“You’re welcome.” Clarke pursed her lips and fought off the urge to pull Lexa into a hug when she noticed the exhaustion etched upon her chiseled face, the defeat in the slump of  her shoulders, the hefty weight of regret on her bones. She had only touched her once before, the night they shook hands at Club Romero, but she had thought about the unexpected softness of her skin ever since. “I wish I had the perfect thing to say, but I know that there is no ‘perfect thing.’ Every sentence I think of starts with ‘I’m sorry.’ I don’t know about you, but ‘I’m sorry’ is the last thing I want to hear when – I don’t know. Being sad and bummed out can be such a repellent, like some people get so bizarre and uncomfortable when it comes to grief and depression, but I’m here for you, if you want me to be.” 

Lexa nodded her head and took another puff of her cigarette. Something was broken behind those dazzling eyes, like peering through a cracked mirror and seeing a reflection of her own pain. The tension, the nervous energy, the confidence of desire, it was still there, settled in the foot of crackling space between them, but a layer of self-consciousness had been stripped away to allow their tongues to loosen and actually form words in each other’s company. Lexa soaked up the sight of Clarke, perfect yet imperfect:  Wind-blown hair, soft lips, a baggy gray sweatshirt that concealed delectable curves, a pair of dark blue jeans that hugged her thighs. It was utterly ridiculous to want someone so much but to know so little about her and what made her tick. “This is the first time in a week that I’ve been away from my apartment. I needed to clear my head. The tobacco shop was calling my name.” She coughed and flicked the half-smoked butt on the ground and stamped it out with a black boot. “I gave up cigarettes over the summer, but I was out for a drive and got that craving again. That’s what I used to like to do, drive around and chain-smoke and listen to music.”

“What do you like to do now?”

“I don’t know. I think I forget. This week has felt like an entire year.”

Lexa shoved her hands into the pockets of her denim jacket. She glanced down at red, Reebok high-tops and playfully assumed that Clarke owned a pair in every color of the rainbow. “What movies did you rent?” Two plastic cases were stacked and held firmly in her hand as Clarke absently bounced them against her thigh.

“Uh, _Slumber Party Massacre_ and _The Dorm that Dripped Blood_.” Clarke was rewarded with a smirk and a warm expression that melted away the cold of her standard indifference. Clarke overdosed on horror, a coping mechanism, even when real-life horror was happening right there, in the heart of Derry. Polished photographs of Costia, Monroe, and Harper, the same ones that saturated the local news channels, flashed in her mind. “ _Slumber Party Massacre_ is interesting because it’s written and directed by women. It was supposed to be a parody, social commentary on the objectification of women in slasher movies, but the studio intervened and forced them to make it more of a paint-by-number splatter-fest with plenty of tits and ass.” Clarke grinned, sheepish and gentle, “If you’re not busy, if you’re interested, would it be weird and insensitive of me to ask you to come over?”

Lexa, her smirk still present, soft and congenial, shook her head, “I was going to ask you if you wanted to go see _Halloween 4_ or _Night of the Demons_ tonight anyway.” 

 

* * *

 

Lexa drummed her fingers on the steering wheel to the Ramones’ ‘Outsider’ and pulled into the macadam driveway next to Clarke and her red-orange Volvo. She parked and turned off her car, and she was still struck by how quiet the neighborhood was compared to hers. There were no rambunctious parties, no drunk girls barfing their guts out on the curb, no obnoxious fraternity assholes catcalling or whooping and hollering late into the night. It was serene, almost too serene, with the picturesque houses and the manicured lawns and the colorful maple trees that lined the block, and she wondered what dark and sinister things the neighbors were up to behind their swanky doors.

Lexa glanced up at Clarke in the rearview mirror and saw her walking toward her mailbox, and she wondered what dark and sinister things went on behind her door, specifically, her bedroom. Last night was the first time in over a month that she had touched herself. Stretched out under the blankets, Lexa snaked her hand under the waistband of her underwear and imagined that her fingers were Clarke, ravenously working her tongue against her, and rocked her hips in time with her strokes until she came in a body-jerking orgasm and then she did it again. It felt good to be aroused, it felt good to have a break from unshakable, monotonous numbness. Lexa got out of the car and followed Clarke to the front door. “Are Raven and Octavia home?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Clarke answered and led the way inside. She hit the light switch, and the three lamps spread around the living room gave off a mild glow. She went to the kitchen and placed the mail and the movies she rented on the counter. Lexa turned on the stereo, catching the tail-end of ‘Open Your Heart’ by Madonna. It was a dream come true, being home alone, having her crush all to herself, hoping for the opportunity to get to know on her a totally different, way more intimate level. Clarke bit her bottom lip to try to contain her smile from growing too wide. Her heart beat a mile a minute, and she imagined that this was what a screaming teenage girl felt like if she got to touch the hand of her favorite member of New Kids on the Block at one of their concerts. She returned to the living room, sat down next to Lexa on the plaid couch, and passed her a beer. “You graduate in May, right?”

Lexa cracked open her beer, “December. I took extra classes last winter and over the summer to finish up early.” She was studying business because she liked the idea of being her own boss, strategizing to maximize profit, productivity, and cost-effectiveness, and brainstorming ways to improve and maintain employee morale if she followed her entrepreneurial pursuits instead of landing a desk job and number crunching for an arbitrary company. “I’ve been thinking, I should ditch this town, start over with a clean slate somewhere far away, somewhere that has no trace of Costia or some sick fuck going around and ripping up girls to shreds. I would pack a suitcase, hop in my car, and just drive in a random direction until I run out of gas.”

Clarke watched her take a gulp of beer and then pulled the tab of her own can. “Yeah, I mean, if you don’t have anything to keep you here, you don’t have anything to stop you from doing what you want to do.” She took a drink, her heart deflating at the thought of never getting to gaze upon Lexa, her intense stare and brooding demeanor, her soft hands that she longed to hold, her elegant fingers that she longed to feel, caressing every inch of her body. “I need to stick around, I have two more years to go, and I need to know how this is all going to end.”

“You’re not scared?”

“I’m fucking terrified.”

Lexa turned toward her and searched her determined expression. ‘I Get Weak’ by Belinda Carlisle came on after the disc jockey of the college radio station finished up a sexist and sputtering ramble on Madonna. Her attention dropped to soft, pink, parted lips and then flicked back to the midnight blue of her unreadable eyes. “Can I tell you something? I had no clue you were interested in girls until last night, when Anya told me something about you. Is that homophobic or heterosexist of me?”

“Oh God,” Clarke groaned, cringing and putting a hand to her forehead, feeling the flush of embarrassment. “Did she mention a Valentine’s Day party?” Lexa reluctantly nodded her head. Clarke vaguely recalled receiving a shocked grin from Anya before she grabbed her jacket and skedaddled out of the bedroom, leaving her tongue-deep in another girl’s cunt. “So, what other preconceived notions do you have of me?”

“You’re an overachieving nerd, but you’re easygoing and down-to-earth. You’re filthy rich, but you don’t have a snobby or pretentious bone in your body. You’re weird, but I like you,” Lexa stated, matter-of-factly. She glanced down at her beer and then tilted her head back for another drink, and she could still feel Clarke’s electric gaze warming her skin.

“Do you want to go upstairs?”

Lexa glided her hand along the wooden railing as she climbed the stairs and tried her best not to focus on Clarke and her shapely ass in those Jordache jeans in front of her. They reached the hallway, and Lexa pictured a pristine room with a large canopy bed, a dresser covered in countless ribbons and trophies, and posters of Rob Lowe, Johnny Depp, and Matthew Broderick hanging up, carefully ripped out of _Teen Beat_.

The last room on the left, Clarke pushed the door open and flipped the light switch. Lexa entered behind her and checked out the modest space. There was nothing pink or frilly, no popular heartthrobs thumbtacked to the walls, and no sign of blue ribbons or gold-coated trophies to recognize her myriad accomplishments. A rustic bed with a homemade quilt, cozy and inviting, jutted out to the middle of the floor. A large television and a collection of horror movies were on a solid stand in the corner. A closet took up most of the wall on the other side of the room while two neon bean bag chairs lay on the plush carpet by one of those clear, see-through telephones that lit up when it rang.

Clarke dumped the videos on her bed and started removing her sweatshirt to reveal a worn, navy and light blue ringer t-shirt that rode up and exposed her lower back before she pulled it down. Lexa pulled off her denim jacket and went over to the television to peruse the stack of horror movies on top of it. She looked over at Clarke as she walked toward her with her beer and one of the plastic cases, the cotton material of her t-shirt tight against her ample breasts, and her stomach performed a nervous somersault. Lexa shifted her attention back to the VHS tapes and asked, “ _Halloween_ , _Prom Night_ , _Black Christmas_ , _My Bloody Valentine_ , is there a horror movie for every special occasion?”

Clarke swallowed down her beer and nodded her head, “ _Graduation Day_ , _Friday the 13th_ , _New Year’s  Evil_ , _April Fool’s Day_ , _Happy Birthday to Me_.” She glanced over at Lexa and those pouty, hypnotizing lips as they twitched and almost smiled. “I know a lot of useless information.” Clarke powered on the television and slipped _Slumber Party Massacre_ into the VCR.

“If I’m impressed by your useless knowledge, does that still make it useless?” Lexa sat down on the bed, unlaced her boots, and felt a dip in the mattress on the other side. She turned around and saw Clarke, her back against the headboard, her legs bent at the knees, her can of beer pressed to her lips. “So, how did you get into horror movies?”

“Well, my mom blames my dad for that. When I was eight, he let me stay up and watch _Bride of Frankenstein_. It was a monster marathon, with _Dracula_ and _The Wolf Man_ , and _Creature from the Black Lagoon_ , six straight hours of horror movies. It turned into a weekend ritual for us. We would sit on the couch, eat popcorn for dinner, and watch anything from _House on Haunted Hill_ to _The Night of the Hunter_ to _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_.” Clarke gazed over at Lexa and felt the burn of her attentive stare. “ _Halloween_ is the be-all-end-all of horror movies for me. I saw it in the movie theater not long after it opened, after I begged my dad to take me, and I remember sitting there, not feeling sure of myself, thinking that maybe my mom was right, that I wasn’t ready, that I wasn’t old enough, that I wasn’t going to go trick-or-treating ever again. _Halloween_ scared the shit out of me, but I loved every minute of it. I think it changed my life. I wanted to be afraid. I wanted to feel something real.” Clarke cleared her throat, the lump of vulnerability disappearing, and her raspy voice sounded slightly smoother. “One of my favorite memories of my dad, he and I went on this spontaneous road trip to eat at the diner where _The Blob_ was filmed in 1958. We sat there for hours, talked about life and love and Steve McQueen, and played songs on the jukebox. That was a nice day. I miss having nice days with him.”

One night, months ago, Lexa had overheard Octavia mention a freak accident, a generous inheritance, and a lawsuit that resulted in substantial wealth after she had forgotten to pay rent on time, after Clarke told her not to worry about it. It was no secret that Clarke had lost her father when she was in high school, but she never heard her talk about him before, never heard her talk about much of anything beyond a mundane day or a soapbox rant until this evening. “He sounds like he was a good dad. It was cool of him to indulge you and nurture your interests.” Lexa glanced down at the homemade quilt, at what little distance separated their hands. She wanted to close that gap and relieve the tension that thrived in the inch between the tips of their fingers.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, at approximately eight o’clock, Ontari Smelt walked toward her white Honda CRX in the parking lot of Savini Galleria. She was cute and petite, and her dark hair was pulled back, showing off several scars on her face without an ounce of shame. She worked her part-time shift at Payless ShoeSource, played various pinball games at the arcade to blow off some steam, and looked forward to heading back to her dorm for the night to watch _Full House_ and _Mr. Belvedere_. Ontari had parked on the dimmer edge of the lot, hoping no one would dent or otherwise fuck with her brand new car. Nothing could have prepared her for the wallop that cracked against the back of her head, and she was instantly down, convulsing in the shadows, blood pouring out of the wound and flowing onto the pavement. She never even got a glimpse of the masked figure that stood above her and pounded a final blow to her skull with a lead pipe. Her body went perfectly still.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think. Also, feel free to talk music or horror movies with me or, you know, whatever. 
> 
> Foursix was nice and cool enough to make a mix to accompany this story, so give it a listen if you like:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/atypical22/playlist/1B2uZArzDQjobVA92TpB0Z
> 
> PS. Lexa is totally going to make Clarke a mix tape in a future chapter...


	5. I Might Be Great Tomorrow But Hopeless Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ADC weekend is here! Have an update! 
> 
> I dedicate this to whoever made that Lexa Hellmo gif. 
> 
> The morning after, and we have a lot of Lexa and Clarke stuff. Thirsty!Lexa is one of my favorite Lexas, by the way. Goddamn, she was so good at being so gay.

 

 

Blue eyes fluttered open, and Clarke released a heavy sigh and listened to the peaceful rain drumming on the roof outside of her window. She reached for the digital alarm clock on the nightstand and angled it to read the bright red numbers. It was almost nine o’clock in the morning. Stormy clouds triumphed over lustrous sunlight, the dimness of her room causing her bed to become an irresistible haven of comfort.

Clarke shifted to her other side, stretched out her legs, her searching feet discovering new cold spots under the covers, and looked at Lexa, asleep on her stomach next to her, and the long strands of messy, brunette hair that concealed the well-defined contours of her stunning face. They got through _Slumber Party Massacre_ and _The Dorm that Dripped Blood_ , talking endlessly over cheesy dialogue and suspenseful music, paying more attention to each other than to the blood and guts and the ridiculous nudity happening on-screen, and then decided to start a _Friday the 13th_ marathon since they both had energy to burn. Lexa had zonked out before she even got to see Jason don his iconic hockey mask for the first time.

A rhythmic knocking commenced against the wall, accompanied by the harmonious squeak of mattress springs, followed by muffled moans and grunts and forceful commands, and Clarke rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling as she silently cursed Raven and her own sexual frustration. Finn was right; she really needed to get laid.

Lexa stirred and lifted her head from the pillow, the fog of sleep quickly dispersing as she realized she was listening to the telltale sounds of vigorous sex in progress. She stroked a hand through her hair to get it out of the way, to have a plain view of Clarke, her coy outward manner, and the small, captivating divide between her lips. Hooded green eyes locked onto hers, the noises growing more loud and more intense, and then locked onto an apologetic smile that she craved to kiss over and over again.

“Raven and her revolving door of boy toys,” Clarke said and cleared her throat in an attempt to clear the tension and the awkwardness away and then moved onto her side, her hand and elbow supporting her head. She cast her gaze away from Lexa to her geometric-patterned pillowcase and lightly, absently fiddled with the tag that stuck out. “What do you and Anya do when you want to bring someone home?”

Lexa continued to be stuck on Clarke and those enticing lips. “Anya does whatever she wants, but she’s mindful, she respects me and our space. If she meets a girl and invites her home, I usually turn up my stereo or just leave for a few hours.” Lexa swallowed against her dry throat, “I haven’t been with anyone since Costia and I broke up, so…” She joined Clarke in a spontaneous staring contest and caught a shot of surprise in wistful blue eyes. She guessed Clarke must have had a line of guys of girls knocking down her door. I mean, how could she not? Not that Lexa was going to ask, not that she wanted confirmation that she was one of many.

The racket next door was reduced to laughs, mumbles, and exaggerated sighs, and Clarke yearned for that kind of intimacy and satisfaction, that feeling of closeness and connection. She had several one-night-stands and no-strings-attached arrangements in the past, born out of desperation and loneliness, but she was left unfulfilled every time. “Are you hungry?” Clarke asked as she sat up in bed and folded over her side of the blankets. She gave Lexa a view of her toned legs in cherry-red terrycloth shorts that rode up her thighs. “We have Pop Tarts and frozen waffles, but do you want to go to Denbrough Diner? I’m kind of in the mood for their french toast and bacon.”

“We kind of should probably go there then,” Lexa responded with a slight grin and slipped out of bed. She smoothed out her Sonic Youth t-shirt and went over to the window to peek at the pouring rain; the grass in every front yard looked electric green, and the leaves of the maple trees were an unreal shade of blood-orange. “May I use your bathroom?”

Lexa opened the door and walked across the hall to the bathroom after Clarke told her to ‘go for it’ and informed her that there was Noxzema in the medicine cabinet and mouthwash under the sink if she wanted to freshen up. She stood in front of the mirror, fussed with her hair, and decided to fix it into a ponytail with a stray rubber band. She gargled a capful of gold Listerine, feeling the burn on her tongue, gums, and the insides of her cheeks, and gladly spit it out in the sink. She gave her underarms a sniff and shrugged when she deemed her faint mix of sweat and Secret deodorant, spring breeze scent, not to be too grody and offensive.

Lexa walked out of the bathroom and noticed that Clarke had shut her door. She leaned against the wall in the hallway, waited patiently while she changed her clothes, and tried not to think about how her dream girl was half-undressed behind one and a half inches of wood. Raven exited the room next door and made her way toward the bathroom. She was topless and wore skimpy bikini briefs, and Lexa quickly averted her gaze to target the floor and stuffed her hands in the front pockets of her jeans.

“Hey Lexa, I thought that was your car parked outside. You and Clarke had a little sleepover, huh? Oh, don’t mind me. Not like you haven’t seen a pair of great tits before, am I right?” Raven said with a wink and a shameless smile and motioned to Clarke’s bedroom with a gesture of her thumb. She went into the bathroom and closed the door. The shower water turned on, and Raven started to sing a shoddy rendition of Paula Abdul’s ‘Straight Up.’

Lexa decided to wait downstairs to avoid another embarrassing encounter and sat on the arm of the La-Z-Boy recliner. Clarke appeared a minute later. Her blonde hair was wild and unkempt but sexy as hell. She was dressed in a black and purple sweater with a zebra print design, tight black jeans, and purple, Reebok high-tops. She handed Lexa her denim jacket, “I think Raven thinks that we, you and I…you know.”

“Well, technically, we did sleep together.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Was it as good for you as it was for me?” Clarke asked, flirty blue eyes meeting alluring green ones, and she tugged Lexa by the sleeve of her Sonic Youth t-shirt to follow her out the front door. She hesitated as she locked up the house, as a feeling of dread and anxiety overshadowed the joy of corny flirtation, and she double-checked to make sure the knob and the deadbolt were secure.  Something was wrong, and nothing was ever going to be the same again. She woke up with the same feeling the day Zoe Monroe had been found sliced up and lifeless on the dirt floor of that run-down barn.

 

* * *

 

A photograph of Ontari Smelt stared back at Clarke as she reread the headline for the third time: The Co-Ed Killer Strikes Again. The Co-Ed Killer? Clarke thought it was a lame and unoriginal nickname, not to mention disrespectful as fuck, the fact that bold, large font brought attention to the demented freak instead of the hapless victim. She had seen Ontari at the arcade, at Savini Galleria just the other day. She remembered the look of concentration in her dark eyes, but her face had a sweet and innocent quality to it, even with her intimidating, scarred skin. Ontari had been so focused on _Double Dragon_ that Clarke thought she was going to break the buttons on the machine.  

Clarke picked up the newspaper and skimmed the article again. She furrowed her eyebrows as she read through the pithy information. None of it made sense to her, none of it added up, not with the death of Ontari Smelt. Clarke stabbed at the remains of her french toast with her fork. She thought about taking another bite but decided against it and reached for her glass of water instead. She glanced up as she took a sip; Lexa sat across from her in the booth, her hands folded on the table. Clarke regretted that second cup of coffee, the jitters of too much caffeine increasing her anxiety. Lexa remained so calm and composed as per usual. “I don’t get it.”

Lexa inhaled a deep breath and reached for the newspaper. She knew the gruesome details of how Costia had been murdered, and that had been too much for her to handle. She had no desire to follow the other cases, to investigate who these girls were or their heinous causes of death. It was easier to be removed, detached, to know as little as possible. Lexa examined the black and white photograph of Ontari, a college student who was working toward a future of some kind, just like Costia, Monroe and Harper too. None of this was fair. Lexa placed the newspaper on the table, “All right, talk to me.”

“I don’t want to get into it.”

“You don’t want to get into it with me.”

“I don’t want to make you upset.”

Lexa nodded her head, understanding the point of view but not agreeing with it, “If you think of me as weak and fragile, you think wrong.” Clarke parted her lips to respond but then pursed them instead and dropped the subject. Lexa swirled the black coffee around in her cup and surveyed the diner. ‘Don’t Get Me Wrong’ by The Pretenders played on the radio, and Gina Martin, one of the servers, bobbed her head and tapped her foot to the music as she went from table to table, taking orders and refilling near-empty mugs. An overweight police officer sat at the counter and stuffed a powdered doughnut into his mouth like a living, breathing stereotype. She had caught him staring at her on multiple occasions with a suspicious glare. It made her nervous, that she was still considered a suspect, and the police department was probably itching to make an arrest to get the higher-ups off their ass. Her attention returned to Clarke and her wary blue eyes.

“I don’t think there’s anything ‘weak’ or ‘fragile’ about you, but you are only human.”

“How do you know?”

Clarke reached across the table and tentatively took one of Lexa’s hands in her own, inspecting her wrist, the top and bottom of her palm, and her long fingers with a scatter of light, lingering, exploratory touches. Lexa watched, mesmerized, reveling in the soothing caresses that increased her heart rate and made her throat go dry. “Well, you have a pulse, so you’re alive, definitely not a zombie. Your bones are quite sound, the opposite of brittle and delicate. Your epidermis, while soft and warm, I guess it could be synthetic. I could be having breakfast with a cyborg assassin from the future, but I think it’s safe to say that you’re more blood and guts and heart under there than titanium metal endoskeleton,” Clarke smiled and looked at Lexa, the way her mouth melted into a subtle grin, and reluctantly let go of her hand.

“What are you up to today?”

“I volunteer at Derry Medical Center on the weekends, so I’ll be visiting with patients and hanging out with the nurses. I wish it was a more hands-on opportunity, but I guess I have to start somewhere. I’m ready to jump in, but they don’t even let me take vital signs.” Clarke was impatient in that regard, loathing boredom and stagnation. She had racked up a variety of skills over the years, giving up her summers throughout high school to be a candy striper and a camp counselor, and wanted the chance to put them to the test. “There is a Halloween party tonight, but I don’t know if I’m going to go. What about you, what are your plans for today?”

“I have to work and then I was thinking of checking out Club Romero. It should be a pretty good show. Scream and The Descent and 28 Days Later are playing.” Lexa looked at Clarke, her quirked eyebrow and her adorable lip-chewing, and could tell that she had no idea who any of the bands were. “If I make you a mix tape of my favorite songs, will you please share your thoughts with me?” She tapped her finger on the newspaper.    

“If I go too far or ramble too much, will you promise to stop me?” Clarke asked, and Lexa nodded her head. “The Co-Ed Killer or whatever you want to call this psychopath changed up his routine when he killed Ontari. He beat her and left her body in the parking lot instead of moving her to another location. So, the question is, why? He had established this pattern of abducting college girls, holding them captive, stabbing them to death, and then discarding their bodies in more inconspicuous areas.”

“Maybe he had to improvise. Maybe Ontari was a last minute thought,” Lexa replied and mentally winced at her choice of words as she thought of Costia. For the four victims, it was a case of ‘wrong place, wrong time’ no matter what, but for some reason, the attacks being totally random and unplanned made her heart sink to her stomach. She hated the idea that Costia could have been anyone when Costia had been her everything.

“I thought this madman was more organized and methodical than that. I compared him to H.H. Holmes at first, but what if he’s more like the Zodiac Killer? There’s been no interaction with the media or the police, but I get the impression that this is all a big joke or a game to him.” Clarke looked at Lexa to see if she was still with her; those serious green eyes were seriously amazing. “The Zodiac Killer was never caught. The taunting and the communication and the murders just up and stopped one day out of nowhere. Hundreds of thousands of crimes go unsolved. What if this lunatic gets away too?”

“Not possible, that creepy asshole is going to rot in prison,” Octavia announced as she appeared at the table and sat down next to Clarke, making her scoot closer to the window. “You know Jasper Jordan, that gross guy who practically lives at the campus library? He had a hunting knife and Harper McIntyre’s wallet on him when he was picked up at Savini Galleria last night _after_ Ontari Smelt got her head bashed in.” Lexa and Clarke stared at each other, flabbergasted. “The police got him. It was all over the news. We can go back to our regularly scheduled program now.”

Clarke observed Lexa while she gazed solemnly out the window and watched the raindrops streak down the glass in little streams. It was hard to believe that the nightmare was over. It was hard to believe that a neo-maxi-zoom-dweebie like Jasper Jordan was behind the murders, but he _was_ clever and a total brainiac with a sardonic side. It was hard to believe that Costia and the three other girls were never coming back, would never get to witness the killer getting his rightful comeuppance for cutting their lives way too short.

Lincoln joined Lexa on her side of the booth, and he greeted her by placing a hand on her shoulder until she turned her head and acknowledged him with the hint of a smile. He glanced over at Clarke and then back to his friend. “Octavia and I aren’t interrupting, are we? We can get our own table if you two prefer to be alone.”

Octavia rolled her eyes and took Clarke by the hand, “I actually prefer to be alone with Clarke, but I promise to bring her right back. Order me a coffee, a side of sausage, and a short stack of pancakes?” Octavia led her roommate to the ladies restroom covered in various shades of pink tile and stood in front of the large mirror that spanned three sets of sinks, checking out her damp hair and sprucing up her makeup. “So, what’s up with you and Lexa? What exactly are me and Lincoln crashing out there?”

“Nothing, probably nothing. I went to the video store yesterday, and Lexa happened to be outside waiting for me. I asked her if she wanted to come back to the house and watch a few movies, and she ended up sleeping over,” Clarke answered, and Octavia raised her eyebrows. “We literally talked, watched horror movies, and fell asleep, the end.”

“You should invite her to Luna Dinghy’s Halloween party tonight. Her parents are out of town, and that house is awesome.” Octavia looked at Clarke in the mirror and watched her shrug a shoulder. “Oh, come on, you have to go. We have every reason to cut loose and celebrate. Life around here is going to go back to normal, and I think we deserve a head-start after putting up with a month and a half of fucked-up terror.”

Clarke nodded her head in agreement, but the sigh of relief was not going to come, not yet, not until Jasper Jordan admitted to his hellacious crimes. She wanted to trust the police and have confidence in their confidence, but that heavy feeling of dread and anxiety continued to tie her stomach in uncomfortable knots.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Jasper is basically "Crazy Ralph" from Friday the 13th, the campus freak, if you will. 
> 
> This is part one of chapter 5, and part two will be the Halloween party. I want to keep to a schedule of sorts, so I thought I would break up the update and share the first part since I'm still working on the second. I haven't had enough time as I would like to get it done, and I would hate to rush something out. I don't want to spoil anything, but shit goes down at the Halloween party...
> 
> Thank you for reading and for the awesome feedback! Please continue to leave comments - praise or criticism, music or movies, whatever, go for it.


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